"You're going to be at the championship, right?" I ask, and her brown eyes sparkle.
"I think I can arrange something," she says lifting her chin to kiss me.
My truck rumbles down the road and she's seated next to me, hand between my thighs. My arm is wrapped around her, pulling her close. It crosses my mind that this is how it's supposed to be. Us going down the road together.
I wanted to freeze the moment forever, but once I leave, I'm packing to go back to my campus. I need to have a face-to-face with my coach. I need to know my options. I know I'm playing, that's for sure. But I need to see what they think my chances are to pull a good rank in the draft.
From where I sit, I have a pretty good chance. But I know there are going to be character concerns. As far as stats go, it might have made a world of difference had I been able to play in the semi-finals. But what's done is done, and I can't change it now. All I can do is put my best foot forward to make a good impression at the championship. I need to make it worthwhile for a pro team to overlook my legal history.
"You're coming upstairs, right?" She asks as we pull into the parking lot of her dorm. Her voice a whispering, sultry sound that promises to deliver. I take her hand and place it between my thighs, letting her feel for herself that I have no plans of leaving without giving her a proper goodbye.
She's tugging on my clothes as her fingers frantically press the passcode into the keypad of the entrance. Our tongues touch as we lean against walls in the hallway, making our way towards her room. My hands are grabbing her ass as she opens the door, and neither of us are aware of the set of eyes watching as we tumble against the bed.
"Excuse me." An irritated voice penetrates our focus. We both stop kissing and jolt upright. Bree pulls her top up and smoothes her hair.
“I'm Delia, your new roommate,“ a brown haired girl says with disdain. "You are Breanna, right?”
Her eyebrows are furrowed and her voice is heavy with judgment. Then she turns her focus to me and her eyes widen. She looks as if she's lost her train of thought, but when she shifts back to Bree, her eyes are softer now. More understanding.
"Yeah. Hi, I'm Bree," she says as she stands. She extends her hand to shake with Delia, but Delia doesn’t it take it. In fact, her eyebrows are raised and she's looking at Bree's hand as if she's wondering where it's been. I try to stifle a laugh but end up making a weird noise, causing both girls to look at me. Bree takes this as her opportunity to drop her hand.
"Let me just walk him out," she says to Delia. "Then we can get to know each other better." She practically shoves me out the door.
"What are you doing? Tell her to get lost for an hour," I say In the hall. My fingers brush against Bree's cheek as I dip down to kiss her, and I can feel the heat behind her skin. She's humiliated.
"I'm sorry, Sean," she says, looking earnestly into my eyes. I kiss her gently.
"It's okay. I understand," I say as I trace my thumb over her impossibly high cheekbone. She hates making a bad impression. However, we both know that if it were me, I'd be letting my new roommate know just what to expect all semester.
“I feel bad about sending you off this way," she says, glancing down below.
"Nah, don't worry about it," I say. "Just send me some pictures."
"Pictures?" Her voice sounds startled. I'm reminded again of how good she is, and how she's never done that for anyone before. The thought makes my blood rush even more.
"Yeah, you know what I mean," I say, bending to kiss her again. "Plus you'll come see me next week, right? You'll be at the game?"
"Mhhmmm." She murmurs as I kiss her neck. "You couldn't keep me away."
Pulling away from her body is torture, and driving away is almost impossible. The only thing that keeps me from turning around is the ping of my cell phone saying that I have a message with an attached image. I bite my lip and exercise just enough discipline to wait until I'm at a stop sign to check it.
Attached is a picture of Bree from the waist up. She has lifted her shirt and is standing in the hall of her dorm. Her eyes are flashing and she’s wearing a naughty smile I’ve never seen before. Her caption says, “I’ll make it worth the wait.”
It will be a long, hard drive home.
Breanna
The squeezing feeling in my stomach makes me wish that I could figure out a way to go back to the hotel room Sophie booked. My whole morning was spent trying to keep Sean from worrying or noticing that I don't feel well. He has enough on his plate.
Of course, despite my best efforts, he could still tell. I just told him that I was nervous the game. It wasn’t exactly a lie, anyway. I was nervous. More than that though, I was nervous that I would be sick in his hotel room. Maybe it was the hotel food we ate last night, though he and the entire team ate the same food and seemed fine.
Sophie wouldn't want me in her room, anyway. She convinced her parents that she needed separate space from them. She made up something about staying up late to try getting a jumpstart on homework for her new community college classes. They were too excited about the potential of her newfound work ethic that they didn't argue.
In actuality, she has grand plans to win Mike back. I would just be in her way.
Besides, the only distraction from my nausea that I have is focusing on how good Sean looks. He’s been walking around in a shirtless frenzy all morning, gathering items to pack in his gym bag and going over plays. His team is meeting in the lobby shortly to head to the stadium, and I can see he’s ready to take on anything.
He certainly took me on last night. Remembering him between my legs makes my stomach flutter happily, but it’s not a good combination with my already queasy feeling. I cover my lips with my hand and close my eyes, trying to ride the wave.
"You sure you're okay?" He asks for the millionth time. He pulls a sweatshirt over his bare chest, and I drag my eyes away from his abs to his face. I give him as tight-lipped smile.
"I gotta go meet the team," he says and he stands to leave. He kisses my forehead gently before he goes, but in his mind, he's already left. He is in a different headspace on game days.
“Good luck,” I manage as he closes the door behind him. I collapse against the bed. Maybe if I take a quick nap, I can sleep the feeling away. Nothing sounds worse than being sick in a stadium.
I set my alarm for an hour and try to will myself to sleep. The game doesn't start until this afternoon, but I know Sophie and the rest of the Foleys are planning on tailgating shortly. The thought smelling beer and burgers makes me almost lose it right there. I take deep breaths, trying to hold myself together for Sean's sake.
My alarm buzzes and I hit snooze. I text Sophie to let her know that I'll be there late. I close my eyes again, feeling sorry for myself. Why today, of all days?
But by my eighth snooze, it's clear the feeling isn't going away. The game is going to start in two hours, and I still need to get ready. I drag myself together, not bothering with the new eyeshadow I bought myself in Sean's team's colors. As excited as I am, I don't have the energy for extras.
Before the game starts, I'm wishing I'm back at the room. I bought a bag of peanuts, but only so I could use the bag if I need to. Thankfully, when the game starts, the feeling begins to dissipate. I'm distracted enough by watching Sean command the field that I can handle the nausea.
It's a close game, with both teams nearly even on the scoreboard. Things are tense, but manageable. But third down, right before halftime, everything changes.
The defense brings a blitz off the right side of the line, and Sean is sandwiched between a linebacker and a defensive lineman. He lays on the field, motionless, and the official signals for time.
"Oh my God," his mom says, covering her mouth. We watch as the trainers come out and assess his condition. The stadium is eerily quiet as we wait to see if he'll move. Time seems to move in hourly increments as we wait. Just when his mom is ready to climb down into the field herself, we hear clapping. The north side of the stadium sees
the motion before we do, and had started applauding. Sean is up and walking off the field, taking ginger steps.
Unable to move the ball, the team punts. The clock for the first half ends and Sean disappears into the locker room.
"Hopefully the break will do him good," his dad says. Sophie is hugging herself tightly, shifting her weight like she does when she's nervous.
"What happens if he can't play for the rest of the game?" His mom asks.
"The only way they won't play him is if he's seriously injured. They can't risk a loss at the championship unless he's physically incapable of throwing the ball," his dad answers.
We sit through the next twenty minutes with a strained silence between us. I watch as the band marches in elaborate formations, wondering if we'll see him play at all in the second half. My stomach is twisting, and I so afraid that after everything he's been through to play, it will be for nothing.
When he's back on the field, we all breathe a collective sigh of relief. While he's still favoring one side of his body, he is hitting his receivers in stride. The moment builds, turning to our favor with every completed catch.
By the time we're in the fourth quarter with 20 seconds left on the clock, the score is 28-30. We are in field goal range, and Sean's dad is muttering under his breath, "Let Sean throw the ball." He wants his son to have the national attention of being involved in the winning play.
His words work like magic. Sean drops back and does a pump fake slant route. The receiver turns, leaving the defender in the dust. Sean hits the receiver in the hands, and he runs up the remaining yards to score the final touchdown of the game, just as time expires. Mrs. Foley is bawling and Mr. Foley covers his face with his hands. Sophie and I are clutching each other, jumping up and down. He did it. He made it happen.
Tears are welling up in my eyes until I realize the motion of the bouncing bleachers I getting to me. My stomach lurches, and I escape Sophie's grasp just in time to find a trash can at the end of our row.
Sean
It's safe to say that the locker room now is an entirely different atmosphere than it was at halftime. My team is laughing and reenacting plays. Some players are singing and chanting. I'm quiet and reflective. While they are making plans to tear the city up, all I can think about is seeing Bree.
I avoid directly answering their questions about where to meet up, telling them to text me later. I told them I'd be there, but it occurred to me that Bree isn't old enough to come out to clubs with us. Without her, I don't even want to go. I do my best to slip out of the locker room unnoticed, but it is impossible. The lobby of the football complex erupts in applause as I dip through the door. I lift my hand to show my appreciation, but scan the room for my family.
My parents and Sophie are standing near a display of trophies. My dad embraces me in an enormous hug. He's never been so proud. My mom is beaming, but her cheeks are tearstained. Neither can believe that I pulled it off.
Sophie is standing off to the side, her eyes fixed on the locker room entrance.
“Where’s Bree?” I ask her.
“She’s supermodeling into the trash,” she whispers. “She hasn’t felt well all day.”
“Soph, why aren’t you with her?!” I ask, scanning the room for her.
“I tried but she waved me away!” She says, her voice turning defensive. She looks over my shoulder, back towards the locker room. No doubt she's looking for Mike.
I walk through the crowd, looking for signs of Bree. When I see her, she’s leaning against the wall and wiping her mouth with her sleeve.
“Breezy!” I say, helping her to her feet. Her eyes are watering, mascara running down her cheek. People notice me tending to her, and a crowd starts to close in.
“I think I need to go back to the hotel,” she says in a weak voice. She won’t look me in the eyes. I pull her against me, helping her walk through the sea of people.
“I’m taking Bree back,” I call to my parents and Soph. My mom gives Sophie a questioning look, and she starts to explain.
I’m hailing a cab and Bree is crying softly.
“I don’t mean to ruin your big night,” she says. “I know you probably want to celebrate with your team. Once I get in bed, I don't mind if you go back out.”
“Not a chance. I want to celebrate with you. Just you. Even if it means going to bed at ten.” I glance at my phone. It wasn’t how I envisioned things, but I never thought I’d have the girl of my dreams at my last college game. She's definitely worth missing a party.
We get into the cab and she still won’t look at me. I’m holding her hand and she’s quietly watching the city go past her window.
“I’m sorry you have to see me this way,” she says finally. Her sad face makes me want to cuddle her against me. Afraid of hurting her stomach more, I squeeze her hand instead.
“You’re still gorgeous. Nothing you could do to change that,” I say.
I get her into the hotel and she seems to be a bit better. At least it seems that way until we hit the elevator. As we lurch upwards, she presses her hand tightly against her mouth.
“It’s okay, just breathe.” I coach. She does as I say, and manages to make it to our room before disappearing into the bathroom. When she’s done, I hear the shower start.
My phone has been pinging nonstop, so I take this as an opportunity to check it. Most are from fans on social media. A few are from members of my team asking me to meet them downtown. One is from Sophie.
She's asking where the team is partying. I take her text as a sign that she missed connecting with Mike. I check through my messages again and reluctantly send her the location. I wonder about sending a text to Mike preemptively to apologize for my annoying little sister, but then remember he brought this upon himself by hooking up with her in the first place.
Bree comes out wrapped in a towel. I pull one of my longer shirts out of my luggage and hand it to her.
“Thanks,” she says, pulling it over her head. I tear my eyes away, knowing there’s no use in torturing myself. No way she'll feel up to it tonight.
I get her a glass of water and she drinks it reluctantly. “The water here tastes funny,” she says with a scrunched up face. I laugh. “Want me to go get you a bottle or something?” I’m joking, but she nods her head.
“Alright,” I say, unable to hide the amusement from my voice. “Anything else?”
“Maybe some salty crackers? Like the kind for soup,” she says weakly, pulling the blanket tightly around herself. That will eliminate the vending machine in the lobby.
But there's a convenience store a few blocks down from the hotel. Despite my aching muscles from the hits I took, I decide to walk. I never imagined that I’d be celebrating the most important win of my life by buying crackers for my sick girlfriend.
I think about her offer to let me go back out once I get her settled. I think about the noise and the drinking, and it reaffirms my choice to stay with her. Fans would be clamoring all over us, and while I was grateful, I didn’t want to be asked if I was going to declare for the draft over and over. Not until I knew for sure.
Besides, she might need me.
The guy at the register lights up when he sees me, but doesn’t seem to want to ask if I am who he thinks. I give him a smile, and I'm on the fence between being gracious or engaging in anti-social behavior. Normally I like interacting with fans, but tonight I don't have it in me.
I put several varying brands of water bottles in the handbasket, then throw some mints in there too. Sometimes mint settles my stomach, anyway. I look around for other things to help. Some ginger ale is added alongside the crackers. I go to the medicine aisle and look for any anti-nausea meds. Thinking I have it covered, I start to walk to the register. That’s when I see it. At the end of the aisle is a little selection of pregnancy tests.
My stomach hits the floor and I shake my head. I’m counting back dates, but I don’t really know how that stuff works anyway. All I know is I used condoms every time. Then i
t dawns on me: the condom that Tiffany tampered with. I close my eyes tightly and try to remind myself to breathe, just like I told Bree in the elevator.
My mind can’t even handle to possibility, and it's scrambling to come up with alternatives. The food we ate. The change of altitude. The traveling. Nerves.
But even I can’t quite convince myself. So I pick up a test that says something about have the fastest and best results. I can appreciate that. So I add it to my basket and refuse to make eye contact with the clerk, who keeps scanning my face as he finds the barcode on the products.
Breanna
Before I’ve even opened my eyes fully, he’s kissing me awake. I turn to look at him, and his eyes are bright, contrasting with the dark circles beneath them.
“Have you slept?” My voice is creaky and my throat is raw. He shakes his head.
“Too excited?” I prop myself up and run my fingers through his messy blond hair. He smiles and kisses me again. “
“Something like that,” His eyes are starry as he scans my face. “Do you feel better?”
“It’s hard to tell. It seems worse whenever I move around.” I start to stand.
“Are you going to the bathroom?” He asks.
I stop walking and shoot him a look. His blue eyes are eagerly staring into mine.
“Please don’t tell me this is a fetish of yours . . . “ I say, only half joking. Thankfully, he grins and shakes his head. Then he’s pulling me close against him, his body cool against my warmed skin. He’s brushing my hair out of my face and looking at me like I’m a unicorn. Like he's just grateful to be in my presence.
“Sean, what is going on?” I ask nervously.
“I know this is weird, Bree, but can you take a test?” He says, his smile fading. He’s still holding me tightly, but he looks serious.
Snapped: A Sports Romance Page 10